It's the next installment for Weave a Wizardry Web ~
Chapters 12 and 13.
The story arc of our two main characters, Alstera and her aunt Camisse, begin to track on different trajectories.
We have a saying, "The road to hell is paved with good intentions." Alstera's intention is to find a greater source of power for the Enclave, a source that will generate overwhelming power that will defeat the sorcerers and their allies.
Camisse obediently followed what her mother and family told her about her power. Pearroc Seale convinces her to try a different pathway.
Chapter 12
Gage slept deeply, as Alstera had intended.
She sat up carefully, trying not to disturb him. She
needed no light for what she intended, yet she drew an orb with the palest blue
glow. In that faint light she studied this man who thought he loved her.
Relaxed in sleep, he didn’t look the warrior who’d
risen to a captaincy. He wasn’t a man who easily gave his trust, but he had
trusted Alstera from the beginning, even when she warned him not to. He’d had
relationships with other wielders; that had been one reason she agreed to their
first dinner. They’d become intimate on the first night, and he’d ensured her
pleasure first, one reason she let the intimacy turn into a relationship. At
some point, he’d toppled into love. She didn’t understand that. He withstood
her selfishness and her distance and he brusqueness. Had he mistaken sex for
love? Did he play word games with her? Did he try to tempt her into a greater
bond? Did he expect—as others had—to profit from his relationship with the ArchClan’s
granddaughter?
She shrugged away the questions. Gage was Gage. He’d
swore she could practice spells on him. Wizards were to serve, but she bent
Gage to her purpose, breaking the Tenet of Service.
His approval meant little since he did not know
what she intended with her spells.
He would return to his post in the morning. No
wizard would sniff any residue of power lingering from her spell.
She hovered her hand over his face, brow to chin. Gage
had a little power, but tonight she had no intention of linking with him to
snatch it up for her use. No, tonight she wanted to plant a little seed, a
little order that he would be impelled to follow. He’d said he wouldn’t come
for a week. Her spell would bring him back to her on the eighth night, Lady
Moon. With extra patrols planned for that night, he wouldn’t want to follow the
order. His will could overpower a suggestion but not a command. She would know
her spell’s success as soon as she saw him.
She worked the spell in the air, a cobwebby design
limned with Earthy ocher. As she drew the spell’s shape and added runes of
command, the light increased. She glanced at the door, reminded of how light
streamed under it to guide her along the corridor. Yet the corridor remained
silent, everyone asleep. For later spells, she must remember to barricade the
door.
 |
| Alstera Wielding Magic |
She worked no repercussions into the command
spell, although the book had mentioned several. When
she’d seen the five blood
punishments that could be tied to the spell, her fingers had snatched off the
old parchment as if scalded. Blood spells would taint her chamber and seep into
the corridor. She hadn’t wanted any taint to follow to her room, so she read
and memorized. For a book lodged in the Enclave archives, she had wondered how
close the earliest wizards had been to the sorcerers they had defeated. To use
wizardry with blood spells, to punish the one forced to obey rather than the
wielder who built the failed spell—that sounded like sorcery.
The tangled strands were strong, power shimmering
over each one. Alstera spun the spell into a tight cocoon then guided it to
Gage’s temple. On a stream of power it tunneled into his brain. And he didn’t
even stir.
She watched for ill effects for a half-hour then
swept away all residue from the command spell. She pillowed her head on his
shoulder, counted several deep breaths, and sank back into sleep.
Gage vomited when he awoke.
Alstera held a cool cloth to his forehead. “Are
you sick?”
“I feel fine.”
“You feel fine and vomited breakfast? That doesn’t
happen, Gage.”
“I’m fine.” He stood, swayed a little, but
steadied even as she reached to help. “I’ve got duties, Alstera.”
“I can send a message to the barracks.”
“No need. Look, I’m already better. Must have been
that soured wine I had with my mates when we were let off duty.”
“Which you still drunk?”
“The colonel served it.”
She scanned his eyes then felt his forehead. Did the command spell cause this? How will I
know? Nothing in the tome had mentioned after-effects. “Nothing spicy or
greasy today,” she warned. “Good wine, no ale. No whiskey.”
“No aqua vitae?”
“Certainly not.”
He scooped an arm around her waist and drew her
close. ‘I like knowing you care.”
“I want you hale and whole when I see you in a
seven-night. No, don’t kiss me with that mouth. Go rinse, then I’ll think about
it.”
He dropped his arm and reached for a clean shirt. “We
start kissing, and I’ll be late for First Call.”
“No headache? No dizziness?”
“Nothing. I’m fine now.”
While she rubbed her temples, worried that the
spell had twisted, he dressed, stomped into his boots, and buckled on his
sword-belt. She couldn’t remove the spell. Gage would know what she had done. He
had consented last night, but she didn’t want him curious about the spell she’d
worked. Wouldn’t his knowledge of the spell nullify the effects of the command?
His stride was long and steady down the corridor,
his bootsteps quick and even on the stair. Then he was gone, no calling him
back. Alstera shut the door and hurriedly dressed, wanting to see Letheina
before she returned to the Archives.
“A good practice, commander.”
“Yes,” she lied. Even with both men coming at
her—when she had finally convinced them to attack her—they had not stretched
her limits.
“Not fast enough for wyre,” Jonas judged.
“Fast enough for today,” Camisse allowed. “I heard
you hiss when you extended your lunge. Is the old wound troubling you?”
He grimaced. “I grow old. I’ve lost my reach.”
“Show me the scar.” She tugged at his linen shirt,
sweat-stuck to his torso.
“My lady!”
“I am commander of Chanerro Pass, Jonas, not my
lady. Show me.”
Reluctantly, he unfastened peeled up his tunic to
reveal three long scars across his gut, a wyre’s single-handed swipe that had
nearly eviscerated him.
Camisse poked the edges. The tissue had thickened.
“You need to stretch daily. Master Herve told you that, but I suppose it’s
easier to swill ale than do your stretches.”
Jonas dropped his shirt and his eyes.
“Was there an ointment?”
He grumbled. She picked up “foul liniment”.
“If it keeps the tissue from binding, what do you
care if it’s foul? Off with you. Clean up before you go, and see another healer.
You let this continue, and she will think you deserve a foul ointment.”
They trudged away. Camisse followed, more slowly.
The shade cooled after the hot sand. The stone
colonnade between the rings was cooler. A drifting breeze chilled her sweat. Shivering,
she found her pack and rummaged for a cloth to wipe her blade before sheathing
it.
“Lady Camisse?”
Eyes still a little blind in the shadowing
colonnade, she peered at the dark shadow. Camisse hesitated only long enough to
pin the voice. “I believe I asked you not to call me ‘lady’, Pearroc Seale.”
“A good trick, to recognize me by voice alone. We
have met only twice.” He emerged from the shadows by the interior wall. “I am
greatly amazed.”
Her mouth quirked. “Then I would like to see your
reaction to a great feat, for recognizing your voice is nothing. You are the
only new person I’ve met since my return. On the border, we learn to be quick.”
She guided her sword into the scabbard. “Quickness is needed to dodge all those
snowflakes.”
He laughed, and that pleased her. Few people
understood her jokes. ‘You don’t like the winter, La—Camisse?”
Her smile was a little overbroad, but he had
laughed at her little joke and he had tried to drop the title she had never
liked. “At Chanerro Pass, we have an overabundance of winter. After the first
five or fifty blizzards, it gets inconvenient.”
He laughed again as he stepped closer. Once he
stepped out of the shadows, she saw the broken nose, the scarred lip, the
scruffy beard. His mossy eyes gleamed, as lucent as Alstera’s. His head tilted
sharply, and now—as at their first meeting—she thought yellow edged his irises,
then he blinked, and the phantom color vanished. The brightness edged back. A
trick of the light must have lightened his eyes, for now they appeared more
brown than green.
“Have you a little time this morning?”
Bent over to latch her pack, she glanced up. Hands
loose beside him, wearing a simple jerkin over a linen shirt, he looked at his
ease. The wind venturing into the colonnade ruffled his dark hair. “I do have
some little things planned.”
Yet as she hefted her pack, he reached over and
lifted it out of her hands. He slung a strap over one shoulder, shield side. “Shall
we talk as we walk?”
Together, they walked through the tunnel then out
the gates. He took the path to the public gardens. Camisse hesitated, but the
public gardens were on the way to Clan Letheina, so she fell into step beside
him.
His first question seemed innocuous. “When are you
to return to the Border?”
“I think when the month is up. No longer, I hope.”
“You are here for several more weeks then. I must
have a name to call you.” When she gaped at him, he added, “‘Commander’ sounds
too formal, and you have denied me ‘Lady’.”
“My name is
available. I thought we had agreed to it.” They reached the walk through the
public gardens. Sweet-scented woodbine called. Vibrant roses beckoned ahead.
He let the gate clang shut. “In my country it is
not fitting to call someone newly met by the given name. You named me Pearroc
Seale. How shall I name you?”
That strange question earned him a narrow-eyed
look, but he was an outlander. She didn’t know anyone else from Petrosse. Perhaps
they were more formal there. Yet after weeks and weeks in the Enclave, he
should be able to skirt the formalities among the clans. “Seale is your family
name?”
“One of them.” He didn’t elaborate. “Does the
Enclave not use family names? Everyone seems to be Lord Denis or Lady Perdita.”
“If that’s Perdita of Clan Drakon, you had better
name her ‘lady’. She can scalp you with a single spell. Pearroc, didn’t the
Drakon explain this? He is your mentor to the Enclave.”
“He explained. He gave no reasons or examples. Should
I call you ‘Camisse Letheina’?”
It sounded so wrong that she shuddered. “No.”
“Or your father’s name?”
“No.” Camisse closed that option even more quickly.
Guilliame had ignored her or berated her, and Raigeis had told her that she was
not Guilliame’s child. In her childhood, she had looked to her grandfather for
a guiding paternal hand. “My grandfather was the ArchClan Saigeis. You may use
his name with mine, if you must. Are we seriously having a discussion about
names?” She grinned to remove any snip from the complaint.
Pearroc grinned back. “The ArchClan Saigeis. Son
of Morted and Ruissa. See what I have learned of clan lineages.”
“Son-in-law. He was illegitimate; they fostered
him. Ad he married their daughter Jantheina, my mother’s mother.”
“Did you know your grandmother?”
“Unfortunately, no. She died in childbirth.” Once
more she tried to deflect him. “Has the Drakon been teaching you the family
lines?”
“I did concentrate on those lessons. Family is
important in my land.”
“Then in our country it is fitting that you learn
the families of the Enclave.” His eyes gleamed at her repetition of his earlier
phrasing. “Be warned, however,” she said with her own glint. “I am away a
decade and more. I will make mistakes. The families are aligned and disaligned
in strange ways.”
“I have discovered this. The vows of power do not
follow the blood lines. Siblings can be in different clans. A child can ally
away from the parent. This intrigues me.”
She raised her eyebrows. It didn’t sound
interesting to her. “Truly? To me, it sounds like a conversation of several
hours and wadded-up paper littering the floor as you try to draw the lineages
and clan connections.” She picked up her pack. “The Drakon knows it well,
especially the estrangements and disalignments.”
“Here is another curiosity. You say ‘the Drakon’,
but other clan leaders are merely their name: Rochein, Metallin, Perrault. Why
is he ‘the Drakon’?” He drastically deepened his voice to deep bass.
Her laugh rewarded his whimsy. “That’s an
impossible question. I suppose, well, perhaps we distinguish him. He is the
greatest of them all.”
“Greater than the ArchClan your mother?”
“Of course. I know my mother very well.” Her arid
tone dried her mouth. “Is it not said that we appreciate strangers more than
family?”
“Because we see ourselves in our family?”
“Ouch.” Camisse pretended to flinch. She put a
hand up to shade her eyes. “Pearroc Seale, you are too serious for me and for
this bright morning. Certain truths need a little shading.”
“Forgive me.” He bowed slightly. “You are right: I
am too serious for this morning. Perhaps the cause is the approaching Wizard
Trials.”
“The Drakon has your training. You do not need to
worry about the Trials.”
“But will you talk with me a little, as we enjoy a
few minutes of this bright morning?” He gestured to a bench in the shade. “I do
confess to some anxiety, even though you may think it foolish.”
“I didn’t say foolish—.”
“I am an outlander. And while Drakon tells me what
to expect, he is many many years from experiencing it as a novice rather than a
judge. Will you speak of your experiences there?”
Camisse balked at sitting down. She searched his
eyes, looking for that golden gleam in the mossy brown. Something in his eyes
seemed a little off. Not quite right, as if—no, it couldn’t be—as if the color
were wrong. Yet he met her gaze unwaveringly. “I will tell you what I can—if
you think you must learn from a woman who fumbled through the Trials and came
out more than a little scorched.”
“You are a wizard. You fight sorcerers and wyre.”
“I fight alongside the Fae against the wyre. I do
not call up spells when I do not know if they will materialize or warp before I
cast them.”
“I sense great puissance in you.”
The word reminded her of Sanglier and his failed
attempt last night. She didn’t share last night’s meeting. “I may have a deep
well, but it remains untapped. I cannot draw up the spells.”
He steered her onto the bench as he murmured,
“Spells of Air and Water.”
She sank down onto the cool stone almost without
realizing it. “Those are the powers that run in my clan.”
“Have you tried Earth or Fire?”
“Why would I? I have little spells enough, not
great ones, but my stamina runs longer than greater wizards. The Fae accept me
in their ranks when I fight. I can channel power to my sword; Bregan Ciele
taught me that, in my first month on the border. That trick has saved me
numerous, numerous times. Usually I am above the fray, watching, alert for
traps, sending out reinforcements.”
“You were never taught spells for all the
elements?” Her scowl alerted him, for he added, “I persist—and my apologies—but
I received training in all the elements, even after my connection to Fire was
revealed as strongest. Did you not have similar training?”
Camisse thought back to those rushed days, trying
to fulfill multiple demands on her attention. The only dropped responsibility
for which her mother and her older brother didn’t berate her was missed lessons.
“I was often distracted. I was primarily caring for my niece and nephew.”
“The niece I met last night. Alstera?”
“Yes, and her brother Romert. He is with the
palace legation.”
“And why was their care on you?”
Here was the long story that she’d wanted to avoid.
With a terseness that bordered on rudeness, she explained, “They were orphaned.
My sister Marpheina and her husband, they were killed in battle at Iscleft.” Tears
burned her eyes. She blinked them away. Why
am I tearful? They died years and years ago.
“My apologies. I did not intend to stir up old
grief.”
“And mine.” She took a surreptitious swipe at her
eyes. “I should not have snapped at you. I am surprised sometimes by how much I
miss Marpheina. She was older and mothered me much as I tried to mother her
children. I had only recently sparked power. I think my family expected me to
be a Naught. That year, well—I know my tutor was displeased with me, from the
moment he began my training. He concentrated on the clan powers.”
“You said that you sparked power? Why did you say
‘sparked’?”
“I—don’t know.”
“Could you have sparked Fire?”
“Fire? No.”
“Think back, Camisse.”
She stared at him. The command seemed foolish. Yet
he looked direct and sure. She closed her eyes to block him out, to block out
the voices farther way, to block out the distant hammering, a dog barking. She
recalled the event; she didn’t really remember it. Raigeis had shouted at her. She
remembered that. He’d been so angry. She remembered water dripping down her
face to puddle on the floor. Why was she wet? Had she called up water? No. Raigeis
had stood before her with an empty vase in his hands. Red roses were strewn at
his feet. He must have jerked the flowers from the vase before he doused her. Why
did he douse her?
And then she remembered, not much, just a flash, bright and golden and hot.
Fire.
Chapter 13
She opened her eyes. She didn’t realize that tears
dripped down her cheeks. “Raigeis threw water on me to put out the flames.”
He touched her damp cheek, then her chin, then her
hands clenched together in her lap. “The first power that blasts out is usually
the heart element. And they gave you no training in Fire.”
“Only the minimum. To control it. I have never
heard that, Pearroc: the heart element.”
“Did you spark Fire again?”
“I th-think so. I remember being reprimanded and
punished several times that first year. I forgot that,” she said wonderingly. “My
tutors said that I was failing, that I must learn to wield Water and Air and
nothing else.”
“And with flames arcing from your hands, you never
questioned your tutors?”
She laughed. “Why would I? We are water and air.”
“Yet you sparked Fire. And you are crippled in Water
and Air.”
He dropped her pack onto the ground and delved
inside his leather vest. He produced a handkerchief. She took it and mopped her
eyes and cheeks then returned it to him. He looked at it wryly, offered her a
crooked smile, then unlatched her pack and dropped it inside. She watched him
without even considering his invasion of her pack. Her mind was filled with his
question, the question that a little girl had shied from because it led to
punishments, the question that now seemed like a seed over-buried from the
light. Her tutors and her brother Raigeis and her uncle Rombrey and her mother
had claimed that she was little more than a Naught. Passing the Wizard Trials
had shocked them.
Until this moment, knowing they had deliberately
trained her away from the element she had sparked—and she, poor fool, had
blindly followed them—until this moment Camisse had not realized how deep their
shock was when the Aged Sages declared her a wizard. They had expected her to
fail. As she had failed all her lessons.
Within a week she had ridden out with a troop
bound for Chanerro Pass.
“My mother’s first comeis said that to me, that I was crippled in power. I did not
fully understand what he meant.”
“Who was this? When did he say it?”
“Draiven Bourne de Fanault. After my Trials. The
day the king appointed me commander. I thought my appointment was a reward.”
“A curious coincidence.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You infer too much.”
Pearroc opened his eyes wider. “I say nothing.”
“You are thinking too loudly then. I can hear your thoughts.”
“Because they are your own in the lonely vigils of
the night?”
She bit back the truth: her family had crippled
her. Why? To say it was to admit it.
He would not leave it alone. “You need to
practice, Camisse, to see if you can wield Fire with ease.”
That golden gleam in his eyes drew her back to the
now. “How did we get from your request that I tell you about the Wizard Trials
to your prodding me to practice Fire spells?”
“You should, and you know it.”
“With whom?” she retorted. “No one in my family. Should
I hire a tutor? That would sit well with my mother and my brother.”
“I would teach you.” When her jaw dropped, he changed
it. “I will teach you. Drakon tells me to practice with fundamental spells in
the heart element. Those are the first tests.”
“They are first, but they cover all elements. Those
first tests may be the only reason I passed.”
“Imagine your spells with Fire, Camisse. With that
deep puissance, you would not fumble. You could draw it up easily.”
She shook a finger. “Don’t tempt me.”
He snared her finger and then her hand. “Afraid?”
“Afraid?” She rolled her eyes. “I fight wyre with
only a magic-edged sword.”
“Have you learned nothing of power from the Fae? Fighting
side by side with them against the sorcerers and the wyre, your own powers
should have sharpened and flexed. Have you not found it so?” He opened her hand
and turned it palm up. The tiniest flame grew. She tried to snatch her hand
away, but he kept a tight hold. “What would a Fae do with flame?”
“Pearroc.”
“The spells they cast, the way they fight, the way
they move, their very words—how many years are you on the border with them? Have
you learned nothing?”
“Let me go,” she demanded, soft, dangerous.
“You should know more of them and from them than
anyone living outside Faeron.”
“I thank you,” she said dryly. “You credit me with
more perspicacity than I possess.”
“How many years are you on the Border?”
“Fifteen.”
“And now you are returned.”
“I will resume command when I return.”
“But in your absence, the sons of Raigeis will
entangle all your work.”
She scowled at his statement of her own worry. Again
she tugged her hand; again he didn’t release it. The flame did wink out. “The ArchClan
will send a veteran captain back and recall them. He leaves today.”
“Did he leave this morning?”
She went cold. Raigeis had not refused the order,
but he could delay it. “I will ensure the captain has left. If he hasn’t, I
will send him myself. I will not have my command disrupted.”
“The only disruption would be to oppose the Fae’s
assistance against Frost Clime. The ArchClan and her magister are prejudiced
against the Fae. His sons will be as well.”
“I know
this, Pearroc.” Suddenly aware of the public gardens, of people walking closer,
of the sun’s climb to the sky’s zenith, Camisse tugged her hand again and again
failed to retrieve it. “We have strayed into topics we should not talk about. Not
here.”
“They are impolitic?” He caught her glance along
the pathway. “Ah, we are in a public area. But, look, they turn down another
path, away from us. Do you fear their gossip? Is this the reason you refuse to
play with Fire?”
She rolled her eyes at his double entendre.
“That’s as good a reason as any.”
“You expect to fail? I believe you will not. Drakon
believes you will not.”
“The Drakon believes I—? Why would he think—?”
“He sat on Council for your tests.”
“And he suggested you teach me?”
“This disturbs you.” Pearroc didn’t shrug. He
tilted his head and examined her eyes, her mouth. “His suggestion offends you?”
“No. I’m not offended. I just don’t like people
talking about—. No.” And she compressed her lips on any explanation.
He smiled, as if he already knew what she would
say. The gleam in his eyes richened, appearing gold. How did he do that? “You
are not offended, not truly. Perplexed, I think?”
She stood, awkward when he still held her hand and
remained on the bench. He even leaned back and spread an arm along the slatted
back. “Pearroc,” she tried, “I would rather not talk about this here.”
“But here we are.” He tugged. Feeling foolish, she
sat down again, and he turned a little, blocking her by crossing one leg over
the other and swinging his foot before her knees. He leaned a little closer,
and she became very aware of his arm behind her shoulders. “Here we can talk of
other things. Better, we can return to Chappelle’s ring and spar with blades
rather than words. I would like the opportunity to cross swords with a wizard
who edges her blade with magic, just as a Fae does.”
“I may edge my sword, but I do not fight like a
Fae.”
“Will you cross swords with me, Commander Camisse?
I think you did not receive the practice you wanted from those two guards.”
“You watched?”
He grinned. “I watched.”
“And?” she prompted, distracted from everything
before. She hoped he would not belittle her skills. Crippled in her power,
ridden over by her mother and her brother, she wanted praise in one thing.
“I have practiced here myself.”
“And?” This time her prompt had an edge as sharp
as her sword.
“Can these practice blades hone the skills you
need for the border? They seem too slow, especially the older guard.”
“Jonas? He’s recovering from a wound. They are
slow. What do you suggest?” And she waited for his answer with keen
anticipation.
“Try me, Lady Camisse.”
Soft words that seemed to offer more than a
practice bout. “I fight with Fae,” she started, then she remembered his claim
that he’d trained with a Fae swordsman. His lean lithe build promised the speed
she needed when she fought the wyre and deflected sorcerer-thrown spells. In
this, as in nothing else in her life, she was expert. Excitement sheened
through her, more than at the promise of a challenging opponent. Pearroc Seale
was an attractive man, and a bout with him would reveal more of his personality
than a dozen conversations would.
“I will try you, Pearroc Seale.”
When he pulled her up, she checked his expression,
his golden-rimmed eyes. He didn’t look concerned. He looked eager. Surely he
knew what to expect. He had seen her bout yesterday with a comeis.
Was it only yesterday morning that they had met?
He quickly walked her back to the arena’s gate. They
had not advanced very far into the gardens. Once past the gate, they quickly
gained the tunnel through the circuit of practice rings.
The practice master raised his eyebrows at her
return, but he agreed to allow them a private space, not the public ring. Unless
the master or his assistants or the errand-boys gossiped, no one would know of
their bout. And the master paid well enough that only foolish employees
gossiped about people who came to his practice arena.
Word would get back to her clan; it always did. How
would her mother react to her daughter crossing edged blades with the Drakon’s
protégé? Troubles yawned before her.
The master did offer them wooden canes to spar
with.
“We should be wise and use them,” Camisse said, a
last warning to Pearroc.
That grin on his battered face never faltered. “But
we will not.”
And she followed him into the sun-brightened
gallery on the second floor.
Pearroc shed his leather jerkin, leaving only his
loose shirt and his leather breeches and boots. To keep things equal, Camisse
shed her leather vest.
No mail. No plated jacket. Not even a padded
doublet. Nothing between sharp metal and skin but their linen.
He took a testing swipe with his sword. Then he
saw her paralysis. “Second thoughts?”
“And thirds. And fourths.”
The sun gleamed in his eyes. “I started this. Yours
the first move, Camisse.” And he set himself to guard.
As if it were a formal match, Camisse took the
first stance, her blade blanking her right eye, then moved into second. She
sighted the sword with a steady arm and lifted her balance hand above her
shoulder.
Pearroc grinned and matched her stance. He brought
his blade to hers, touched it, angled his to create the formal cross. “Ladies
first.”
She held the stance a heartbeat longer, then
tapped his sword aside and lunged in, a fool’s move that was trained out of her
recruits. He hadn’t expected it. Speed saved him as he dodged back. Camisse gave
him the grace of a step then regretted it when his sword slashed up, whistling
past as she whirled away. And then they engaged in earnest.
She forgot the slanting sunshine, the conversation
in the garden, the knowledge that her family had crippled her power. Her focus
narrowed to her sword and his, the sand gritting the wooden planks, motes
drifting in the air, the sweat rolling to her eyes. He watched her, his
gold-rimmed mossy eyes revealing nothing of his next move.
He pressed her. She stumbled over nothing. He drew
back. “You are better than that. Again. Match me.”
She grinned at that challenge. He let her begin. She
re-doubled her efforts. He increased his speed in response. She matched it,
matched his skills as well. And she had worried that he wouldn’t match her. She
laughed with sheer joy.
Just as she started to be proud, his blade swooped
around and hit hers when her arm was at a weak angle. The sword flew from her
hand. He broke mid-stroke, the magic-limned blade gleaming like his eyes.
“I’ll wait.”
She wiped the sweat from her face, wiped it off
her sweaty palm, wiped off the swordhilt. He was sweating as well, his shirt as
plastered as hers, his hair as slick.
She took stance again, shunning the formal pattern
for the two-handed grip that gave her the extra strength she needed against a
man.
Her change brought out his own laugh. “Now we get
serious.”
“Give me a match, Pearroc Seale. Eleven days off
the border, and I get lazy. Give me a match.”
“I am stronger than you.”
“I have more tricks.”
His eyes measured the angle she held her blade,
designed not to meet his flatly but screech along the edge. His grin increased.
“Match me,” he warned and drove in.
Camisse gave way, not trying to counter his
strength, waiting her opportunity. The bout no longer followed the rules of a
drill or a formal fence. Different. Better.
Her focus narrowed to Pearroc only, blade
countering blade. Their bodies reached, turned, shifted over the sanded floor. Motes
of dust danced around them, like sprites glittering in the sunlight, like the
fiery glimmer in his eyes.
He pushed her limits. She used every technique she
had learned to best a stronger blade. He struck harder than any soldier she’d
ever faced. The Border had taught her tricksy ways to deflect his sword, using
the angled edge or a yielding tip, catching his sword near the hilt where she
could add her body weight to her strength, channeling the power riming her
blade to force his up and off into the air while she ducked under it or around
him.
Her wrists ached. Her arms ached. Her shoulders
ached. Camisse shifted past his attack and rolled along his arm to give herself
a few seconds’ grace before he rounded on her.
Pearroc changed his attack, foregoing the expected
upper or lower blows to strike at her torso. She had to use her weight to stave
off his press. She dug in, refusing to back off, still looking for her opening.
He bore in two-handed. Camisse braced for the
greater strength, met the blow, stood against it—then her blade snapped at the
hilt. It flicked back and clipped her cheek in its arc away.
She staggered toward his blade.
Pearroc caught her shoulder and steadied her. His
sword dropped with a clatter. He snatched her useless hilt and threw it
viciously. Then he touched her cheek. His fingers gently tapped the wound. “You’re
bleeding.”
The cut began to sting. She jerked, but his grip
was a vise.
“Be still. It’s deep.”
“You’re hurting.”
“Do you want everyone to say you cried over a
little cut?”
“You said it was de—oh. Is healing part of your
powers?”
“Does it feel like a healing?”
The stinging burned deeper. She flinched but
couldn’t retreat. At some point his vise-like grip had shifted to the back of
her head.
“It hurts.”
He stopped probing. “How will you replace your
sword?”
“I’ll ask Ruidri Talenn for one.”
“Fae blade.”
“I was using a Fae blade. A friend at Chanerro gave
it to me.”
He glanced at the blade. “Then it shouldn’t have
broken.”
“They do break, Pearroc. Over time, sorcery
weakens the join of blade to hilt.” His hand dropped. Camisse wanted to touch
the cut, but she knew better than to interfere with his healing. “Is it still
bleeding?”
“No. And no one will know you’ve been cut unless
they look closely.” He picked up the blade, walked over to the hilt that had
clanged against the wall and recovered it. “Will Talenn de Ysagrael have you a
new blade in three days?”
“Three days?” Then she realized what he was asking.
“We don’t need to finish our bout. On your head is the laurel crown, O victor.”
She tried to infuse humor, but Pearroc remained somber.
“Your equipment failed, not you. I can supply you
a sword if Talenn de Ysagrael cannot in that amount of time.”
“I do have a spare blade with me.”
“Human forged.”
“Well, yes.”
He dropped the pieces of sword on the table beside
the door and came back, drawing his blade and handing it to her hilt first. “Take
mine with you, until the comeis
provides a replacement.”
“I won’t take your sword.”
“My replacement is Fae-forged. Take it, Camisse. I
would not have you un-armed in this city, not when your blade is a better
defense than your power.”
A shadow hid the gold in his eyes. “What are you
saying?”
“I am not saying or suggesting anything. You said
sorcery had weakened the join. That’s where the sword broke. I do not want you
to go un-armed in the streets of Tres Lucerna. Not with the deaths that have
recently occurred.”
She saw the sense of that. She cautiously wrapped
her fingers around the hilt. He released the blade, letting her have the full
weight of the sword. It was heavier than hers, a few inches longer, inches that
he used in his favor. The balance also felt wrong. But she had fought with
swords not weighted or balanced for her before and knew how to adjust. She
would need to practice with it.
He brought over his scabbard. When she would have
exchanged blade for scabbard, he shook his head and stepped close to wrap the
belt around her hips. They were close enough to embrace. She liked the smell of
him, woodsy, balsamy, like deep forest. He knotted the extra length of the belt
behind her right hip.
“I thank you, Pearroc. I have my dagger—.”
“Not enough in a concentrated attack.” He walked
to the table to take back up the pieces of her sword. “You are certain Talenn
de Ysagrael will give you a Fae-forged sword?”
She tilted her head. He had asked that question
several times. “Yes, of course.”
Pearroc remained at the table. He picked up the
hilt, examined the separation, then dropped it and picked up the blade. It
looked dull in his hands, especially when power gleamed goldly around his
fingertips. Without looking up, he asked, “Talenn is another friend, even
though you’ve not seen him in fifteen years?”
“All Fae are my allies.” Then she winced, for he
was examining her little smear of blood on the blade. He ran a gleaming finger
along the edge. The blood burned away.
“That gladdens me.” He grinned, his gravity
lifted, and the difference in his mossy eyes amazed her. He tossed her the hilt.
“We’ll share the spoils. And we will cross better steel on Moones Day. At Sunring.”
“You are an early riser.”
“Ottende then or Tiende, but before Middag.”
“Until then, Pearroc Seale.” She held the hilt in
a formal salute and grinned at him. “I look forward to our next bout. I will
have to practice before we meet again.”
“Same bout, as yet undecided. And I will see you
before Moones Day, Camisse.”
They parted at the Colonnade. She took the path
through the public garden.
Camisse stopped in the garden. With the fountain
sparkling behind her, she examined the broken join. She peered at the steel,
but nothing stained the metal. She sniffed it, but smelled no foul aura. A
whiff of power didn’t detect sorcery. Nothing seemed to have caused the sword’s
failure.
Pearroc Seale had suspected a cause, though. He
hadn’t accepted her explanation.
She wasn’t certain she accepted her explanation. She
had heard it enough, but never from the Fae.
But who would tamper with her sword?
Had he kept the blade purposely? Was the blade weak?
He hadn’t let her look at it.
And he had burned her blood off the steel.
The weight of his sword felt heavier the more she
walked. By the time she reached Letheina House, it felt ten times its weight.
Her maid carried in a sheaf of flowers as Camisse
wrapped herself in a bathing linen and stepped from the hipbath.
“Look, my lady. A boy just brought these.” She
placed the wrapped flowers on the table at the window and undid the string
Camisse padded on bare feet so she could touch the
pink petals and long slender leaves. “What are they?” No one had ever sent her
flowers. Not even Reteif in the height of his professed love. At the border,
she usually received a bottle of wine as a gift. She hadn’t had a paramour
since Reteif. For a moment, she felt a brief pang, then it passed.
“Peonies, my lady.”
“We’ll need a vase. I think—yes—down the hall,
Briella may have a spare vase.” She had found the card, but she didn’t read it,
not with Hravda watching. The woman would report to Raigeis. She missed Perda,
long gone into her next service. Perda’s loyalty had always been to Camisse. “Go
now, Hravda.”
“Yes, my lady.” The maid went, but she looked at
the card as she left, revealing her orders.
When the door closed, Camisse broke the seal.
An apology for my awkward healing and a wish to
see you sooner than Moones. Luftein, 15th Bell, Verron’s Maison on
Glass Street.
Only a “P” signed it.
Signatures revealed a lot. She could only examine
his handwriting, choppy and slashed, the capitals stronger. The single letter
had no swirls or curlicues to ornament it, much as the man needed no
ornamentation.
She didn’t know Verron’s Maison, but Glass Street
was near the Palace Wall. A high-end establishment, then. Camisse considered
her wardrobe and wondered if Faone would let her borrow that leafy green. Or
the cherry pink she had never had a chance to try on.
Faone would also know about Verron’s Maison.
The maid returned. Camisse lit the card, let it
burn close to her fingertips, then dropped it onto a salver to let it ash. Raigeis
would not hear of her evening with Pearroc Seale until she left tomorrow
evening.
All Sorts of Links !
View the Trailer https://youtu.be/jePz27U2Y6U
Previous Chapters
Chapters 1, 2 and 3 https://remiblack.blogspot.com/2026/04/weave-wizardry-web-opening-chapter-1-2.html
Chapters 4 and 5 https://remiblack.blogspot.com/2026/06/weave-wizardry-web-chapters-4-and-5.html
Chapters 6 and 7 https://remiblack.blogspot.com/2026/07/weave-wizardry-web-chapters-6-7.html
Chapters 8 & 9 https://remiblack.blogspot.com/2026/08/weave-wizardry-web-chapters-8-9.html
chapters 10 & 11 https://remiblack.blogspot.com/2026/09/weave-wizardry-web-chapters-10-11.html
Previous Chapters on the Writers Ink Site
On WIB 1, 2 and 3 https://writersinkbooks.com/celebrate-with-remi-black/
On WIB 4/5 https://writersinkbooks.com/free-fantasy-chapters-4-5-of-weave-a-wizardry-web/
On WIB 6/7 https://writersinkbooks.com/free-fantasy-chapters-6-7-of-weave-a-wizardry-web/
On WIB Chapters 8 & 9 https://writersinkbooks.com/free-fantasy-continues-weave-web-chapters-8-9/
Chapters 10 & 11 https://writersinkbooks.com/free-fantasy-continues-weave-web-chapters-10-11/
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